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On his first birthday, his mother wrapped him in a blanket and set him on a high-chair while she and John sang a boisterous rendition of “Happy Birthday” that had their neighbors closing their windows. Everything was bright and warm and soft and all their troubles melted away for the day. He was safe. Loved. Alive.
On his fourth birthday, he spent most of the day playing outside in the yard. Mom and Dad were fighting about something. What it was didn’t matter… they always seemed to be fighting. When he went back inside, his parents had plastered smiles onto their faces and sat him down at the table with a cake covered in bright blue frosting. He had asked for pink.
On his fifth birthday, he held Sam carefully in his lap as they zoomed down the highway, wincing at every bump in the road. He didn’t know today was anything special. No one told him. And no one cared. So he just looked after his baby brother. Made sure he didn’t hit his head. Tried to shush the tears when they started. Glanced back through the window at the car seat discarded on the side of the road after John had smashed it in an angry rage. But he was still safe. Alive.
On his tenth birthday, he crouched behind the bed, trying to keep his breathing down as John stumbled around the room. Sam was tucked in. But he wasn’t worried about Sam. Not now. His heart beat against his chest and he knew, he knew, it was only a matter of time before he got pulled from behind the bed and thrown on the floor. But he crouched there anyway. Legs burning, eyes filling with tears, mouth totally dry. And in the dark, he whispered, “Happy Birthday, Dean.”
On his thirteenth birthday, Dad took him out for lunch. Then he dumped them in a motel in the middle of nowhere with the heat broken and a parking lot full of messed up guys full of liquor. He didn’t come home that night. Or for the next week. They needed money, bad. That was the first time Dean took advantage of his pretty little mouth and a trucker desperate enough to use it. But he was still alive.
On his seventeenth birthday, he bit back the urge to beg John to come with him. To listen to the thoughts that were buried six feet under with his mom and scream that he was just a kid, that he was scared, that he couldn’t do this alone. He kept his mouth shut, though. Kept his mouth shut until he was standing over the grave of two nuns who’d been stupid enough to let their feelings get the best of them. Who’d been stupid enough to love. He looked down at the flames devouring them and finally spoke. A bitter “Happy Birthday, you broken piece of shit,” no one would hear.
On his twentieth birthday, he kissed a man. A drunk, stupid mistake that felt dirty, wrong, as fucked up as he was in the head. He didn’t remember much after that. Just remembered his Dad’s fists pounding him into the pavement before he turned on the poor bastard stupid enough to pick him up at the bar. There was a gunshot. A thud. Rough hands shoving him into the car. Then he blacked out. Still alive.
On his twenty-third birthday, he drank until he passed out. Sam tried to control it. But Dad was gone and he’d just been told he was losing the only thing in the world that mattered to him. And when he lost it… when Sam went off to college with the intention of never coming back, Dean knew exactly who it would get taken out on. Knew exactly who would be on the floor bleeding and helpless. But he told Sam he was happy for him. Told him he would go far, do great things, make the world a better place. Then he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and didn’t stop until the world faded away.
On his twenty-seventh birthday, he glared daggers at Sam all day, daring him to comment. He didn’t. They drove to their next hunt in silence, tension hanging heavy in the air. Part of Dean, a small, helpless, weak, part of him, thought Dad might call. Might break his radio silence to say something to his son. He didn’t. Dean wasn’t surprised. He didn’t even go to a bar that night. Just crashed onto the bed the second they were through the door. Safe. Alive.
On his thirtieth birthday, he did go to a bar. He wanted to ignore it all for a while. Lilith, the angels, the memories of Hell fettered to him no matter how hard he tried to escape. He wanted to pick up a random girl. Lose himself for a night. When he woke up the next morning he was sleeping in a bed that wasn’t his, strong arms wrapped around him and the smell of cologne heavy in the air. He jumped up. Nearly pushed the guy out of bed. Grabbed his things without a word and sprinted to the car, laughing Sam’s questions off as the shame and guilt threatened to overwhelm him. He was wrong. An abomination. And he knew it.
On his thirty-third birthday, Benny drew a stupid cake in the dirt and sang to him while Cas watched with the barest ghost of a smile. It’d been the angel’s fault that they even knew what day it was, much less that it was Dean’s birthday. He blew out the dust candles with an exasperated eye roll and ignored Benny’s mocking cheer. They were surrounded by monsters, only a thread of hope holding them together, and it was one of the best birthdays he ever had. They were in danger every second. But he was still safe. He was still alive.
On his thirty-sixth birthday, Cas pulled him aside in the corridor of the bunker. Dean’s head was pounding from the effects of the Mark and his vision narrowed at the confrontation, every instinct telling him to bring Cas to the floor. But he didn’t. Not with Cas. Not this time. Somehow, in the chaos of Metatron and Claire and everything seconds away from falling apart, Cas remembered. Cas cared. He didn’t say anything, just stared at Dean with eyes full of concern and pressed a hand firmly against the burning Mark on his arm. His eyes lit up and a cool, soothing feeling slid into Dean’s skin, spreading through him until he was full of it. For the first time in months, he felt okay. He felt like himself. Cas’ breath fell hot against him and they stayed there for a moment, Dean’s breathing relaxing and the tension flooding from him. Then Cas collapsed, sliding down the wall til he came to rest on the floor, weak and depleted. He looked up at Dean through tired eyes and whispered, “Happy Birthday.”
On his fortieth birthday his eyes burned as he followed the instructions Billie gave him, hoping he didn’t get interrupted, hoping no one knew. The metal was hard, and the sigils took time to burn in. In the back of his mind, it registered. He’s forty years old. And when he’s forty one he’d be trapped at the bottom of the ocean being tortured by Michael himself for all of eternity. Faces swam in front of his eyes. Sam, Jack, Mom, Cas… the people he was leaving behind. The people that would have to go on without him. The air left his lungs and suddenly he was on the ground, gasping. But it didn’t matter. This had to be done. It didn’t matter what he wanted, who he wanted- it was the end of the line.
On his forty-first birthday he was, by some miracle, still alive. Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. Except the threat of Chuck hanging over their every waking moment. It was Jack who insisted they celebrate that year. And with Cas and Eileen behind the idea, Sam jumped on it. They decorated the bunker, sang the stupid song, even got him pie instead of cake. It was stupid. With everything going on around them, it was more than stupid. But Dean didn’t care. Being there, his family smiling around him, the warmth of Cas pressed against his side as they all watched Tombstone together, he didn’t give a damn what was going on outside this safe haven. They got one fucking day. And not only was he loved, he felt loved. Not only was he safe, he felt safe. Not only was he alive, he felt alive.
On his forty-second birthday he’s still loved. But he isn’t safe. And he isn’t alive.